A lord's speech
by Katherine NotGreat
Summary: While the WWII is about to begin, one summer night an elderly professor of phonetics and his lovely wife have a most peculiar visitor... "If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world" Heinrich Heine
1. An Unexpected Visitor

"_If_ _the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world_."

— **Heinrich Heine**

_1939, Wimple Street, London _

The old city was buzzing and bustling like a disturbed beehive, the anticipation of war heavy in the air, and the whole of London's atmosphere even gloomier than usual—even on that fine, warm summer evening when it all started.

However, the old Professor's residence somehow seemed invincible to the overall unease, still being a citadel of Tradition and Order—a sort of refuge, if you will.

That, of course, didn't mean that the venerable Professor was now much more hospitable than, say, thirty years before. In spite of his lovely and intelligent wife's efforts to make their house a regular "_salon_" or at least a place from which people wouldn't flee after five minutes from entering it, he still preferred the company of books and tape-recorders, to that of living human beings (with the only exception for his lady).

That evening was originally NOT meant to be an exception to the rule, however.

Yes, that particular evening was quite pleasant and calm—at least indoors—and there was new material to be studied, and thoughts of a hot cup of tea and delicious raspberry tarts just made by his lady were all the old English gentleman could think about at the moment he heard a loud knock at the door.

"Who the deuce could be tapping at this hour, Eliza? I'm positively not expecting anyone tonight!"

"Language, darling! I'm coming down!"

"If that's again one of those impertinent reporters, throw him out! Or, rather, tell him I'll do it myself if they don't stop bothering me!"

"My love, I guess hardly any reporter in all London is not aware of the welcome you usually bestow upon them!"

When the mistress of the house opened the doors, she was rather puzzled to see an uninvited visitor. He was by no means an impertinent newsmaker, nor a nosy neighbor, but a tall, unknown, dark-haired boy, whose blue eyes were now gazing at her in a rather creepy way.

To be more exact, the stranger was no longer a boy, as he looked about thirteen or slightly less, though his gaze was that of a grown-up's. He was decently dressed, though after glancing at him Eliza thought at once that the visitor's background was closer to her own than to her husband's. However, the boy's posture (to Eliza, he still was a mere boy) was oddly solemn and somewhat arrogant, and therefore didn't match at all with his clothes.

Fortunately, Eliza had never been an easily intimidated person (or else how could she possibly have lived so long with her husband?) so instead of having shivers down her spine, or at least the decency of showing any signs of uneasiness, she stepped forward and gave the stranger a warm, welcoming smile.

"Hello, my dear! Do you have an appointment with Professor Higgins?"

The boy stiffened, and put up his chin in defiance.

"No, I haven't, but I wish to see him."

"That's rich, lad! Are you sure the Professor wishes to see _you?"_

"He will, if he learns of what I have to propose."

A random person would suspect nothing, but Eliza's trained ear quickly spotted a barely distinct London accent.

Her native accent.

God, had she been _that _ambitious when entering the same house for the first time all those years ago? Or _that _self-assured?

Maybe yes and maybe no…

But that hungry longing coming straightly from the depths of the soul—yes, she recognized it immediately.

Another candidate for lordship, to be sure.

"Well, Jack; you must be either too bold or too stupid, if you enter the Professor's house with this high-and-mighty manner of yours!"

The blue eyes became livid, but when they met her green ones, the anger in them came to a halt.

"I won't be called stupid by the likes of you!"

"And I won't be frightened away by the likes of you, Jack! This attitude won't get you anywhere, mark my words! You want to take lessons from my husband, don't you? So behave yourself and mind your manners. By the way, Wool's or Riverside's?" With that phrase Eliza's stern expression changed into both a merry and conspirative one.

The young visitor was evidently caught off guard, perhaps for the second time of his life.

"Wool's," he answered with a blank face. "And I'm not Jack. My name is Tom Riddle," he added somewhat morosely.

"All right, Tom, do come in, then!" And Eliza took his hand (at which act the strange boy flinched but said nothing) and led him to her husband's study


	2. Taming of the Shrew

"So, Mr. Riddle, if you have the nerve of coming to my house, perhaps you could tell us what your problem is?"

The boy's brow went up.

"My problem?"

The Professor gave an inward chuckle.

"Well, you must have a serious problem, or else why bother coming all the way from Whitechapel at this hour?"

_Touché._

"I…" The visitor's voice and manner lost some of its previous prejudice, but was still far from amiable. "I need the phonetics lessons. I really do. And I know you're the best in this branch. So I came here to take them less—_those l_essons. From you."

The Professor and his wife exchanged glances.

"And what, pray, made you think I am in a need of another student? Besides, I am now mostly busy with research work, and leave most of the language business to my lady." He pointed at Eliza, who sent the boy a mischievous glance.

"No!" the stranger exclaimed with sudden sharpness, which surprised himself, in the first place. His expression then returned to that of a neutral one, although he was still uneasy, and not liking it.

Not that he had often been feeling uneasy, to be sure.

But this house and this couple…

"Because I need _these _lessons!" he spoke in a higher tone. He stood up and started pacing the room. "I'm a student of a private boarding school—it's not a well—known one—in Scotland and I finished my second year, and I'm the best…" He looked at Eliza. "…One of the best students over there, but those idiots—I meant other students—mock at me because I can't speak properly!" He stopped pacing as suddenly as he started and dropped into a nearby chair.

The Professor now looked more interested.

"Actually, young man, for someone who spent almost twelve years of his life in the gutter, your speech is quite tolerable."

The visitor went red, both with anger and humiliation.

"That was a compliment, by the way, Tom," Eliza added, looking understandingly at the boy.

The latter's right hand, which had been hidden somewhere under the overcoat before, suddenly dropped loose.

"Yes, I'm a fast learner, Professor, so my grammar and vocabulary did improve during the last two years. But that accent…" he trailed off, now almost desperate. "I cannot get rid of it on my own."

_As much as you hate to admit it._

"So, Mr. Riddle, you need my help to, ah, keep up with your studies, am I right?"

"No," the visitor gave a sigh of frustration. "Not exactly. In classes, I'm superior to most of those morons who mock me! I'm special—I always have been! But they…" His face darkened. "They don't treat me properly because I don't pronounce words as those high society ninnies, so I need to learn to speak as they do. And I need it soon." The dark eyes now penetrated straightly into the Professor's grey ones, as if hypnotizing him, but a second later widened in surprise, as the old gentleman did the unthinkable.

He laughed out loud.

"So, young man, in spite of having been told that I don't give private lessons anymore, you are trying to intimidate me, or, perhaps, hypnotize me like a rabbit?" The Professor finally stopped laughing, as the boy's already livid face contorted at the word "rabbit." "And, pray, why should I make an exception for you, of all people? How are you different from dozens of other impertinent boys?"—He looked up mischievously at Eliza, who was still present in the study—"Or girls? Do enlighten me, Mr. Riddle."

"If you say no…" the visitor started in a dangerous voice.

"Who told you I was going to send you away?" asked the old gentleman in a seemingly innocent tone. "If I decided to refuse you right away, you'd have been out of this house long ago, so as you are still standing here…By the way, do sit down, young man, your movements are becoming too hectic!"

The boy, whose eyes were still far from peaceful, stared at the gentleman with misunderstanding.

"Won't you sit down, Tom?" added Eliza in a more gracious manner. "And the Professor is not refusing you; he only wishes to discuss a few important points, so be a good boy! Would you like some chocolate?"

Tom's angered face now had an almost confused look to it.

"Pardon?"

"I don't think they hand around much chocolate at Wool's, so help yourself," smiled Eliza.

The boy frowned in uncertainty, but reached for the plate and took a chocolate with his long pale fingers. Then he slowly sat down on the edge of a chair opposite to the Professor's, looking definitely out of his element.

"So," continued the latter in a more benevolent manner, "what makes you think you could be an exception?"

"I always was an exception to the rules," Tom said forwardly. "I've always been special."

The Professor's eyebrow went up.

"Is that so? Do elaborate, young man!"

"I _am _special. I've always been different from the others," Tom repeated stubbornly.

"Well," the old gentleman drawled, "we are all different from one another, I believe. And in a way, everyone has something that makes him or her special. I am special in my own branch of science, or else you wouldn't have come here, I suppose…And, Eliza, for example, apart from her other talents, can make us some _special _tea with _very special _tarts—won't you, dear?" His last words were addressed to Eliza, who at once nodded and left the study, and Tom could swear that she had twinkles in her eyes.


	3. Perks of Not Being a Lord

Tom looked as if he wanted to contradict, but the Professor didn't give him a chance.

"You see, Mr. Riddle, being "special," as you put it, is not always necessarily a good thing, or, in your terms, an asset. Don't start arguing; I'm far from finished, so you better take another chocolate instead."

Tom frowned, but couldn't resist the tempting offer. Meanwhile the Professor went on.

"On one hand, you are proud of being different from others, but on the other hand, your…err…flaws in speech, which also make you different from your schoolmates, are definitely something you aren't proud of, or else you wouldn't come to our humble abode, would you? You claim to be special, but you want to take lessons from someone you consider—without any proper reason, mind it!—below yourself, in order to fit into the society of upper class snobbish whelps whom you most likely loathe as much as you do those prats at Wool's, or the man sitting in front of you—and don't try that poker-face look with me, I'm not that stupid! Quite a dichotomy, is it not?"

Tom's pale face flushed.

"Don't twist my words, Professor! I know what I want…I mean, I knew when I came here, but you've warped all my ideas!"

"Easy, easy, young man!" reasoned the old man in a soothing tone. "Perhaps your own ideas were too twisted to being with, eh?"

To Tom's astonishment, the man actually dared to chuckle!

"People—at least most of them—are idiots."

Tom became seized with a sudden fit of cough.

"I'm afraid nothing can be done for that, at least not in this life," the Professor went on complacently, taking another chocolate from the glass jar, which was already far from being full. "But still, some people are even bigger idiots to believe that they are somehow superior to the others! Don't look so scandalized, young man, better take another chocolate! So you see," he continued when Tom reluctantly followed his advice, "being different can either be an asset or a flaw, depending on the situation. Besides, what is perfect speech for you? Surely not an art as it has always been for me, I'm sure. For you it's a means to an end, but to what end?"

"I wish to become someone great…"

"A great actor, per chance?" the Professor inquired with a badly hidden smirk.

His interlocutor nearly choked on the last piece of chocolate.

"Merl—Lord, no, of course not! I meant," he added with an almost humane expression, "I wish to become a great man. A man of power. A lord, that's it!"

The older man looked disappointed.

"You, Mr. Riddle, are not that foolish, not to realize that a title is not a guarantee of a brain in a man's head. I met lords that were as thick as wood, and most intelligent men—and women—with no title at all. Surely you…"

"This world," the young man began as he rose from his seat and started pacing again, a feverish glint in his eyes, "is not fair. And many things in it are not as they must be. I would like to change that."

The Professor, though mildly surprised, did not actually show it.

"Oh, really? Taking over the world—not exactly a fresh idea, is it? And, I suppose, you have already concocted some "great" nickname, like, say, Lord Dreadd, or Count de Mortvivant, eh?"

The visitor's face almost flushed.

"I see," continued the host. "Dear me, how dull! How dull and vulgar and commonplace! What a mediocre life goal for such a great mind! Really, young man, I thought better of you!" He went on, shaking his head in frustration, seeming not to notice his opponent's unease, or even a hint of the young man's confusion.

"And all your talents, all my hard work, all richness of the English language, at last—to be reduced to the means of getting approval and loyalty from those upper class dunderheads! What mediocrity! I'd die of shame, should one of my best students choose that way!"

Tom's ears pricked as he heard the last line. His brain spotted the key word ("best") instantly and his gaze softened a bit. He could sense the older man wasn't lying.

"Maybe I don't sound like some novel hero, Professor, but all I'm sye—_saying_—is actually true. I want to change this world, and I have the power of doing so. Hey, what are you shaking your head at?"

The Professor sighed.

"If you possess some…_supernatural abiliti_es, Mr. Riddle," he quietly said, looking openly straight into those confused midnight eyes, "they don't necessarily make you a good man. Nor a great one."

"I have no wish to…"

"To become a great man, my friend, you must become a good man first. Or were you going to become some odd sort of deity, without becoming human in the first place?"

"I wasn't going to—bugger—err, sorry, Professor!" The boy had evidently close to no experience of confidential talks with adults. "In fact," he finally uttered, after a prolonged silence. "Actually, I know I don't wish to stay what I am now for long."

"And what that might…"

Eye contact between the two men once again became so tense that one could cut the silence with a knife.

"I only know for sure," the boy finally said in a clipped voice, though entirely in earnest, "that I have no wish to stay a mere nobody with nothing of my own."

"Beg pardon?" the Professor's brow went up.

"I've got nothing of my own at present," the young man now sounded bitter and even dejected. "Even my name and my face aren't actually mine. I…inherited them. They belong to the git that left my mother and me, when I wasn't even born. So I despise both." His handsome face darkened. "And at Wool's… they have no idea of such things as "private property." The last sentence went along with a mirthless smirk.

The Professor, now absolutely serious, stood up as well.

"You see, Mr. Riddle," he said, choosing his words carefully, "your looks, as well as your name, are but a frame. Or a shell, if you prefer. Tom Riddle, Jack Robinson—does it actually matter what name your parents gave you? The background, the "contents," if you wish; the personality behind this façade is what truly matters. And it's you who are responsible for the contents with which you fill this "shell." The Professor looked straight at his opponent now, but without the former hostility. "Yes, it's all up to you. Even the correct grammar and phonetics of English language is but a tool—see, what a sacrilege you made me say!—and this tool can be used either for a good purpose, or for a bad one. And the same goes for all human knowledge, all our abilities and talents. For they are ours and yet they are not," he said, now sounding more solemn. "And all of our abilities are given to us so that we can make some use of them. And what kind of use will it be, good or bad, ah, that is something no one can choose for us but us alone…"

The boy's face was blank, but the Professor was aware of some intense thinking process going on behind those figurative walls.

"I can show you what true greatness is," he added in a lower tone, "but only if you care to learn. I could make a real lord of you, young man, not that ridiculous power-obsessed psychopath you described to me. I do see much potential in you, Mr. Riddle. Not only in language studies, mind it. And I'd be extremely sorry, should one of the best students I should ever have choose to become another _Führer_. But again, it's up to you and you alone to make your path."

Tom's face was unreadable. And, for once, his own thoughts were unknown to him.

The tension in the study was likely to prevail for quite a while, when Eliza burst through the doors carrying a tray of tea, sandwiches, and tarts.

"Oh, still arguing, I presume? Well, Tom, help yourself! My husband can survive on science alone, but you look positively starved, and you aren't a girl to be fed only with chocolates, right?" She gave him her best motherly smile, looking genuinely concerned for his well-being.

And this, alone, was something altogether alien to him.

How many people actually cared whether he ate or not?

Until now, there had been no one.

But now…he sensed some forthcoming change in the air, and he was not sure whether he liked it or not; he just wasn't used to such treatment.

However, why should he decline a free meal? He could always handle these strange Muggles later…

"Now, Mr. Riddle, repeat after me: _**The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain**__"_

"But that's exactly what I sye now!"

"No, Tom, you don't have to "sye" it. Just SAY it!"


	4. Dialogues

"What? Repeat _all_ of it _again_? You cannot be serious, Professor!"

"I'm always serious, when I'm not jesting, Mr. Riddle."

"But I've done it about ten times already! I haven't got no more patience with them texts!"

"That's exactly why you should continue. Patience, young man, is a great virtue."

"I'm not known for my virtues!"

"Perhaps you should reconsider your image."

"Here, you must eat, Tom. Henry is an enthusiast, and he believes everyone is like him and can survive on sheer enthusiasm. Here's your plate."

"Thank you, Mrs. Higgins."

"You can call me Liza, if you wish. I'm no grand lady."

"Mrs. Liza, why did you marry him?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, Professor Higgins is an advanced specialist and all, and he did a lot for your career, but, Mer- Lord, that man is a monster! How could you agree to live under the same roof with him?"

"It's quite simple. I loved him. I still do."

"But that's ridiculous! Love is foolish stuff invented by insipid old writers!"

"You are so funny, Tom!"

"Pardon?"

"You are so bright in many things, no less than Henry himself, but in certain things you're like a baby born yesterday!"

"Could you at least explain your motives for loving him?"

"Goodness, Tom, just as I said: it's odd that I must always explain to you something that is evident to everyone else! "

"I'm not "everyone else!""

"That's nothing new, m'dear. However, I love Henry not "for something," but just for himself. Or else it wouldn't be true love."

"It doesn't make any sense!"

"Is that so? You, for example, aren't exactly an angel either, to put it mildly, but I still like you a lot. Now, don't look so shocked!"

"Well, at my boarding school all teachers admire me. Almost all of them. In fact, there's only one teacher that doesn't like me. He thinks I'm dangerous and evil. "

"I mostly agree with him. Moreover, you're a wicked, self-centered, arrogant, cruel, and manipulative little liar with no moral principles. All right, perhaps we could omit the word "little." No, don't look at me as if I've grown another head upon my shoulders. But still, I rather like you. And that's exactly where I differ from that professor of yours. People are to be loved for themselves, not because of certain qualities they may possess. Or don't possess, as it goes. And I don't think you're evil."

"Mrs. Liza, if anyone else told me all those things…"

"I know, my boy. But, like you, I'm not "anyone else."

"Professor, are we finished for today?"

"In fact, young man, we might as well be finished in general."

"I'm sorry? I don't seem to get the point…"

"Come on, Mr. Riddle, you aren't that stupid, not to see the point! But if you insist…I have taught you all summer and you have shown very good results. _Very _good, for a boy from Whitechapel, and, trust me, I know what I'm saying. As far as your speech is concerned, I'm quite satisfied."

"But _I'm _not satisfied! All goes well when all is under control, but when I get angry or...distressed, I instantly start speaking in my old way! "

"And you are angry almost every hour of the day...My point exactly. Have you ever thought _that _is your essential problem, ?"

"I fail to understand."

"Not your speech. Your emotions. Or, rather, the fact that you have but two strong emotions, and neither of them are positive ones. Shall I name them for you? Anger and hatred, my boy. Anger and hatred."

"_Sir, _I…"

"Your anger governs you, not vice versa. How can you dream of becoming a master, when you aren't able to be a master of your own soul? How can you think of guiding people when you are misguided yourself? And how, pray, could you possibly become a lord, if you are yourself possessed by those two evils?"

"I ain't used to being criticized!"

"That's exactly why I am saying I have sadly failed as your teacher. However, perhaps it may be not as bad as it seems. Come over again on Friday, if you feel inclined to study a little more before the summer ends. I, too, am rather ambitious! Perhaps there's still a slim chance to make a lord of you…"

"Goodness, Tom, you almost ran me over!"

"I hate him! I hate it that he always sees through me! I hate him for being right! I hate all of you, and this cursed house where everyone is so righteous!"

"…And my cooking as well?"

"What?"

"I say, Tom, if you hate everything here, them you must hate our food, too…"

"Er…no, Mrs. Liza. No, I don't hate your cooking."

"That's a good boy! Come on, speaking of food, the soup is ready! I'm rather glad there is something in our house that you don't quite hate…"

"You know why I said I hated this house of yours, Mrs. Liza?"

"No, I don't. Suppose you tell me?"

"Because this house, it…it makes a person wish to come over again. And again."


	5. Point of No? Return

"Henry, what did you tell him? He rushed out of here like a madman!"

"Was that boy ever sane, to begin with?"

"Don't change the subject, Henry Higgins! What did you tell him?"

"Actually, the truth. But for this boy it is an absolutely unfamiliar issue."

"Are _you _in your right mind? He may never come back now, and what will become of him?"

"Oh, but he will come back, be assured. _I _haven't a single doubt about his return. And you, Mrs. Higgins, must have been reading _Peter Pan _too often for your own good these days!'

The Professor was indeed right.

That evening looked and sounded like a parody or Gothic-inspired sensation stories _mis-en-scene. _And Professor Higgins always loathed sensation stories.

So he did dramatic entrances. Unlike his troublesome student, who appeared on the threshold of his study, at his usual time.

However, everything else seemed to be unusual that evening. The lesson wasn't proceeding half as good as before, Tom being unusually silent, absent-minded, and more unfathomable than ever.

Finally, the Professor's patience ran out and he loudly closed the textbook.

"So much for today, Mr. Riddle. I guess your thoughts are engaged elsewhere tonight. Perhaps eager to start your school already? Or is there some little romance going on, eh?"

Tom visibly flinched, but said nothing. His look stayed as somber as before, and his right hand was hidden under his coat, which he hadn't taken off since his arrival.

"All right, don't answer if you don't feel inclined. Perhaps we might change the subject? We could drop the English language, for once, and talk of something entirely different, like, say, art, or modern philosophy, or…"

"Tell me, Professor, what do you think of death? Are you afraid of it?"

The older man never expected the sudden question, but hid his astonishment rather well.

"As a matter of fact, no. Why should I? Fortunately—or, for some, unfortunately—for about two thousand years, death is now only a temporary inconvenience."

The boy's handsome face visibly contorted.

"Really, Professor, I never thought you to believe in all that nonsense about afterlife made up for the weak!"

The Professor chuckled.

"Strange notions you have of strength and weakness, Thomas!" He ignored the boy's conflicted look on his calling the latter by first name. "As for me, weakness is playing pretend you can close your eyes and cease to exist just because you don't see anything with your eyes being closed. I may not be a good man, but I choose not to be a coward. And as for death—it is always standing behind your back…"

At this particular moment, Tom hastily turned around with a hint of fear on his troubled face.

The Professor chuckled again.

"Don't worry, my young friend, that metaphor was meant mostly for myself alone. I've lived long enough; I've known true respect, friendship, and, finally, love. In other words, I know what genuine happiness is. So I am grateful and mostly ready to pass the final test." He stood up and looked straightly into the young man's glaring eyes. "As for you, my young friend, I'm not that sure you can tell the same thing about yourself…Can you, Thomas?"

The two pairs of eyes were locked for what seemed an eternity.

Slowly, very slowly, Tom finally averted his gaze with an odd expression on his face, and showing only a small glimpse of an undergoing inner conflict.

Anger, loathing, fear, confusion—and a tiny hint of longing…

"Blasted psychiatrist!" he shrieked before storming out of the study, as if the apocalyptic Horseman on his pale steed was after him.

"_Psychologist, _my friend," was the Professor's answer that he scarcely managed to hear.


	6. BreakEven Point

"Tom? You're looking for _Tom Riddle, _ma'am? What has he done again?"

Miss Cole, the matron in charge of Wool's orphanage, had never been an optimist by nature. And when it concerned one Tom Riddle in particular, she was anything but optimistic. In her opinion, nothing good could come of that strange boy with a strange name, fit, according to her, either for jail or for an asylum. Or, perhaps, for both.

Now, on finding a very decisive fine lady on the threshold, she was slightly intimidated.

"Why necessarily "done something?" I just wish to speak to Tom, that's all!" Eliza Higgins looked positively intimidating when she chose to.

"In fact, the boy's behavior has always been odd, but he's even odder than ever for the last couple of days! He doesn't speak either to the children or to the staff and he refuses to leave his room even for meals…"

"Shouldn't you at least _look _concerned about the boy in this case?"

"Why should I? Am I the boy's keeper? He's always been a strange one, always on his own…"

"Some guardian you are, _Missus _Cole!" muttered Eliza before quickly pushing the astonished matron aside on her way upstairs.

"Go away!"

"Tom? Are you all right?"

All she received was a flicker of recognition in a pair of weary blue eyes on the face, which seemed more haggard and paler than ever.

"Why are you here, Mrs. Liza?"

"Because I—_we _feltworried about you!"

"Well, you shouldn't be" He turned his head back to the wall, never getting up from his bed.

"I don't care what should or shouldn't be, my dear, I'm just here, and I won't be leaving you for now."

She thought she had heard a slight sigh from his corner.

"I don't want to talk, Mrs. Liza."

"All right, then. Perhaps we might stay silent together for a while?"

So silent they stayed, each at a loss for words for some time.

"You still won't leave me alone, will you?"

"No," she answered in her warmest tone, "I won't. I can be just as stubborn as you, Tom."

There was another slight movement in the dark corner.

"How did you find me?"

"Ain't a newcomer to this part of London, ya know," she smiled, speaking in her old accent on purpose.

"You mustn't blame Henry very much," she went on when he became silent again. "He never meant to offend you. You two are quite alike in that aspect—all craving for knowledge and not paying much attention to other people's feelings. But you must know that from the very moment you showed up at our house he—and I—wished you only good…"

The reaction to her words was anything but predictable.

"Like hell he did!" Eliza's "_protégée_" crossed the small room before the former could say Jack Robinson. She gasped and stared at him in surprise.

"That's exactly it!" Tom finally cast off his usual emotionless façade, crying out almost desperately, "I saw it in his eyes!"

Eliza continued to stare at the boy, silently waiting for some kind of explanation.

"You know, Mrs. Liza," he changed his tone to a nervous whisper, "I can read peoples' minds when I look into them—_their_ eyes. And that evening, when I saw _his _look…Firstly, I mistook him for another Dum—a teacher from my school I once told you about. The one whom I never managed to fool and who thought me to be evil from the start. But then I looked into _those_ eyes and realized that he wasn't."

"Wasn't what?"

"Wasn't like that other one at all. He actually blooming _liked me! _He even dared to _care for me _like I was a son of his! He—devil take it!—felt _concern _and was worried for _me, _not for himself! And he didn't think I was evil at all!" Tom raged, his tone oddly accusing.

"You are telling it in such a manner as if it were a bad thing to care for you," Eliza said, shaking her head.

"Yes, it is!" Tom's voice became high-pitched for a moment, then again reduced to a feverish whisper. "Because I was—_am _evil! Do you know, Mrs. Liza, that I wanted to do him in that evening?"

Eliza's eyes widened in shock, but there was no disgust or loathing in her eyes, only sadness and empathy. "And, I suppose, you wanted to do the same to me?"

"No," he replied, his voice quite hoarse, "I…I wanted to spare you…"

Eliza felt a lump in her throat, but gathered herself together.

"Foolish boy," she sighed, "don't you understand that Henry and I are one? That by killing him you'd kill me, as well?"

And yet, in spite of words, her reproach was void of hatred or anger, the only feelings familiar to him until now.

Tom couldn't bear it anymore and turned away, his shoulders uncharacteristically sloped in defeat.

"The point is," he went on after a heavy pause, "that every time I came to your house, I had some strange feeling I couldn't place. Everywhere else I was—I am—self-sufficient. I didn't need anyone, I didn't care for anyone, and nobody cared for me. I've always been on my own, and I preferred it that way. But after I started visiting_ your house,_"he started pacing, as if searching for the right words, both strange and foreign to him, " I began to feel lacking…sort of…devoid of something. Something important, that everyone but me had, and I didn't." He now sounded unusually bitter. " So I hated myself for being weak, and for wishing I had that "something," and for feeling that…that _lack _of it; and I hated _him _for making me feel in need of something, and…" Tom glanced at Eliza wistfully. "I wanted to hate you as well, for being too good, but I couldn't…"

"And then, looking into Henry's mind, you saw that he was not the hypocrite you thought him to be, but truly concerned for your well-being?" Eliza asked quietly, standing up and crossing the distance between them. Tom seemed not to notice it, staring into space with a blank face. "Oh, Tom, Tom, why must you always be so difficult! We both, Henry and I, see what you are and don't bear any illusions on your account, but we still care for you, whether you like it or not! Believe me," she added gently, "people often need to be restored much more than furniture or houses do. One should never throw anyone away, no matter how damaged he or she is!"

And then Hell must have frozen over, because Eliza did something Tom never expected—and would, under other circumstances, never have allowed any living creature to do.

She gave him a hug.

And—what was even more incredible for Tom—he didn't hinder her.

"I don't believe you," he muttered stubbornly after a moment of silence, awkwardly slipping away from Eliza's motherly embrace.

"Well," Eliza said, finally looking relieved, her merry twinkles reappearing in her eyes, "you may as well _Adam and Eve _me. Do come this weekend before school starts," she added standing in the doorway. "I'll cook something _special." _And she elegantly swept out, leaving both the dingy room and a flabbergasted Tom Riddle behind.


	7. Epilogue N1 original

**Epilogue N 1 (the original planned)**

_(Three and a half years later…)_

"Professor, I'd rather not spoil the festive mood by speaking of the year I first met you and Mrs. Higgins. I owe you too much…"

"Nonsense, Thomas, it's _you _towhom I owe my life, at least twice."

"_Twice, _sir?"

"Yes; once during that bleeding Nazi bombing of our district and, before that, on that crucial evening when you wanted, as our dear Eliza used to say, to do me in, but changed your mind…"

"Sir, I'd rather not talk of…"

"Come on, there are no strangers here, only family, and I always wondered what stopped you in that crucial moment, when you could've chosen to do something entirely different."

Tom regarded him evenly; there would be no secrets between the two, if in this single instance alone. "Actually…to accomplish that…_act_, one has to mean it. Besides…Wait, Professor! Do you mean that you _knew?"_

"Of course I was aware of your intentions as soon you asked your "big question," and even earlier than that. Your whole Prince-of-Denmark posture made me guess, along with the fact I know a thing or two about you East End chaps."

"You knew it all along and you did nothing to stop me?"

"Why should I? In the end, it was Someone Else who did. Besides, there was still a chance you could change your mind, and I was willing to take a risk." He gave Tom an encouraging wink "You know by now that I like a good challenge, don't you?"

"Beg pardon, Professor, but to take _such _a risk…And all for someone who was nobody to you…you must have been incredibly mad!"

"Well, perhaps I was. Perhaps I still am. You know, we, true scientists—including you, my boy!—are all a little bit bonkers. Just imagine, Thomas! A certain professor takes a flower girl from the gutter and makes her into a great lady, in all sense of that fine word. A couple of decades later the same eccentric old fellow meets a young, orphaned, ambitious delinquent with psychopathic trends and an _idée fix _for world domination, and agrees to make him a lord, and then after several years of association, he succeeds even better—he makes a _man _of him! And not a bad man at all, let me tell you! Do you now agree that old Britain is a country of mad genius?"

"Or of genial madmen, sir!"

"Well, it's all the same, my boy! Now, before you tell me the latest news of your research work, perhaps we could indulge ourselves a little?"

"To tell the truth, sir, I'd like to! The stuff they offer on the train…"

"Who cares about train food? Eliza, dearest, will you fetch that bottle of champagne you've been hiding since the war began? And be sure not to forget about the cake!"


	8. Epilogue N2 a tribute

**Epilogue 2 (Tribute to Megii's "Letters to Walpurgis")**

She wasn't aware then that it would be the last time they saw him.

Honestly, he couldn't imagine their parting taking place on the threshold of Wool's—the Higgins couple would have looked rather out of place there; even more out of place that he had ever been.

He felt rather awkward, never having any experience in saying goodbye. Before, he had no one to leave behind.

"You don't even know where, exactly, they are going to send you?"

He had already parted with the old Professor in the apartment, but Eliza insisted on accompanying him to the entrance gates, and made sure he took the package she had wrapped for him earlier that day.

"No, Mrs. Liza, but don't worry; I'm sure that in that part of Europe hurricanes hardly ever happen," he attempted at a joke, though neither of them laughed.

"I know that you aren't fond of writing letters, but perhaps you'll make an exception for Henry and me?"

"Of course. And you, Mrs. Liza," he paused then, looking almost embarrassed, "will you remember me?"

"As if we could ever forget someone like you, Tom," she chortled, trying to appear merry for his sake. "For certain, I shall. Even in my prayers, although you don't believe in them."

Tom looked at her even more seriously than before.

"I may not trust in _Him, _but I trust _you, _Mrs. Liza." He cleared his throat. "I'd better be going now, before Miss Cole starts to think I'm on the run…"

"You aren't _very _afraid, are you?"

Eliza's seemingly innocent question caught him unawares. He turned back, traces of inner turmoil on his pale face. "Not _very much, _but …you made a right guess, as usual."

"Well, don't be." She stood on her tiptoes, being now considerably shorter than he, and kissed her "_protégée_" on the forehead.

"Just one more thing before you go." Eliza didn't seem to notice the out-of-character confusion of the young man, who had never been kissed before. "Once you said you had nothing of your own. Now perhaps things are different, but, please, do remember that you indeed own something very precious. Your soul, Tom: The most precious possession in the whole world. You are its master, and you are free either to save or to lose it. Please, Tom, keep it whole, don't mutilate it, for my sake, if not for your own!" she added, putting her small hand on his shoulder.

Tom lowered his eyes, something akin to a trace of guilt flickering through the whirlpool of foreign emotions.

"Mrs. Liza, if…anything happens to me, please tell the Professor that the…experiment I once refused to tell him about…Well, it failed," his voice slightly trembled, " and that you both were the cause of that failure, but I don't mind it now, because…" All of a sudden he stopped, as if realizing that he had said too much about something he didn't intend to speak out loud at all. "No, never mind, don't tell him anything. Just give him my regards and…my gratitude, and…" his voice was now faint as a whisper, "thank _you, _Mrs. Liza, for everything."

He turned on his heel and all but ran down the street.

Eliza felt a lump in her throat, but restrained herself. She was a strong-minded woman, after all.

She never shed a tear half a year later, when they received a telegram via Miss Cole, informing them of Tom's death in a battle, somewhere near Bucharest. At that moment, she felt numb, ignoring a sharp pain in the chest and Henry's indignant exclaims about heartless dunderheads in the government sending underage boys to die.

Her stupor ended only later, when they came into contact with Colonel Forester, who was the one to send the telegram.

"Excuse us, Colonel, but did Tom leave any note or letter before…before the attack?"

The man in military uniform nodded and reached for something in his pocket.

"Yes, actually it was Stubbs who brought me this note after…err…the attack was over. He told me Riddle had asked him to take care of his belongings in case…you know." And he passed a small grayish piece of paper to the Professor.

The latter gave the note a quick look, and then looked questioningly at his wife.

"I'd be damned if I have the slightest clue as to what he's writing about," he muttered, averting his eyes, lest anyone should see him overwhelmed.

Eliza quickly snatched the small sheet of paper. It contained but three sentences:

"_It was by no means easy, but I kept my promise. Now I'm glad my experiment from last year was a failure. And though it feels strange, somehow, I'm no longer afraid."_

And it was only then that Eliza gave way to tears. But not those of despair.

**Fin.**


	9. Author's final word

Well, it's highly probable that upon having read this story most of venerable readers will excalim, "Now, at last Mrs. Romanenko has officially gone bonkers. Perhaps the Nativity fast has been too much for her. Who in his/her right mind would believe that the fate of the Wizarding World (and the world in general) could be saved by means of chocolate?"

And they won't be entirely wrong. But still…

Every joke is only partly a joke © . I just wanted to show that things _could have gone _differently for Tom Riddle, if he had met someone like Bernard Shaw's famous characters on his path. Or just any other wise and compassionate persons who could show a little kindness to an "angry young man" deprived of love from his birth. So consider it my "Russian answer to Chamberlaine" , or rather to JKR, whose Albus Dumbledore acted towards Tom (in Book 6) in such a way that probably made Makarenko and Korchak roll in their graves…

However, we have fanfiction, therefore, can always rewrite history!

Best wishes,

Kate (Ekaterina)


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